Untitled
by Rainwind
Summary: Because their story has never had a title. A notsochance encounter between two notsostrangers, too long later. Slight slash.
1. Chapter 1

Untitled

Summary: because their story has never had a title. A not-so-chance encounter between two not-so-strangers, too long later. Slight slash.

Disclaimer: not mine.

Notes: random and empty inspiration. Irrevocably…

Decades, maybe a century later, and he sits alone _(as always) _on the edge of a conveniently placed cliff that overlooks a lake and a glittering, beautiful city beyond it.

And how things have changed.

"What's wrong?" asks a vaguely familiar voice, from behind him.

"What's wrong?" He laughs, bitterly. "Everything. Everything's wrong. They're all dead and I'm not, and it was bound to happen but not like that, not now, not…then…I wouldn't expect you to understand." A pause. "No one does."

"You'd be surprised," the man says, and sits next to him, just a little back, so he can't see his face. "You would be very surprised."

Another bitter laugh. "I probably would be. Thought I'd seen everything. Every bloody thing there was to see. Look, mate, I'm not saying you haven't been through shit, because I know better than anyone what it is…but not like me. No one like me."

"Never was," the man says, and he ignores him, because he already knows who he is. "I know just how you feel."

"Do you, though? You knew them, but not like I did."

"I could honestly say the same."

"Nothing," he says, ignoring the comment, "I don't feel _anything_. I only feel what others feel. I'm their fucking plaything, s'all I am. Doesn't matter what I feel, s'long as I can do what they want me to…"

Arms around him, and he hadn't even heard him move. "Don't say that. You were always the one that felt, everything or anything. You will always feel, even as you fall, even as you burst into flames or ashes on the last day of your unnatural unlife."

He turns around and faces him.

Familiar features grin uncharacteristically.

"Spike."

"Angel."

"Missed you."

A shadow of his former self, Spike manages a smirk. "I'm sorry I can't say the same."

"Shut up."

"Poof."

"Wanker."

"What?"

"You heard me." Another Angelus grin.

And silence, as they embrace. Not a manly-clasp-hands-and-slap-on-the-back hug, but an embrace. Understanding. Sort of.

"Can I help?"

"No one can help."

Lips briefly on his, and he arches into him wantonly _(gorgeous and submissive; memories in a bloodstained, abandoned box left at the bottom of the well; the feeling of a body pressed against his; bigger, taller; smaller, shorter; dark and light)_, before he is alone once more, left to gaze out over the glittering, empty city and listen to the purr of a motor and remember, and look at the letters on the card.

_Angel Investigations._

He memorizes the address and throws the card off the cliff, towards the glittering city, and turns away before he can see it fall short of it's destination and land atop the dark water below.

Fin.

Want a sequel? Just ask.


	2. Chapter 2

Moment - Untitled, The Second

…which I feel needs no extra stuff, which was all stated quite clearly last chapter. Just a note, this is more about the characters. There will be smut in this, but more just the two of them, and presence. This will most likely be short.

There is a point in here at which the perspective changes – fairly smoothly, but changes nonetheless – from Spike to Angel, and this is intentional. There are also a few moments in which it's difficult to tell which 'he' is which. These are intentional as well, and will be cleared out fairly quickly.

Also: if you noticed, I haven't mentioned anything about how the future world is different. This is completely deliberate. While I love future stories, the details of them tend to distract from the moody feeling I'm trying to get at. Also, I've never liked speculating about things that could happen in reality. It makes the truth that much more disappointing.

Thanks to Katie, who asked.

* * *

Spike is silent, but the door is not, which strikes him as odd but he ignores it because there are more important things hovering in his mind and waiting to be let out, if he lets them.

He is waiting.

Somehow, Spike knew he would be.

Somehow, he knew Spike would be here, now. He hasn't been waiting for long, but it hasn't been long so it doesn't really count.

Spike isn't stupid. He knows what it's like to be used. But Angel never used him. Angelus did, of course he did. He used for every possible thing he could have used him for, and William wept and cowered and Spike spat in his face but always came back begging like a bitch in heat.

It's a beautiful night, but he woke up screaming with the image of Angelus' face burned into his eyelids. And it was then he knew he'd be going, whether he wanted to or not. His feet would carry him, and he wouldn't be able to stop them until he was sitting down in the mansion and if he tried to move Angel would stop him, because the mansion is his ground and therefore his rules, which Spike always simultaneously hated and loved following, depending on how Angelus was enforcing them.

He stands still in front of Angel, as if presenting himself.

And he waits.

And Angel does nothing.

They stay in these positions for an inordinate amount of time, in which both of them could have been busy noticing the little things (_how Spike's ribs show, skin stretched painfully over them, through the rips in his black t-shirt; how Angel's eyes are empty and his shoulders slumped a little)_ and then Spike is moving, around a huge mahogany desk designed to intimidate and closer to the hesitant darkness that is Angel and was Angelus and still is underneath.

Before either of them know what he's doing, Spike is in Angels lap and his lips are moving frantically over Angel's collarbone, kissing and licking and nipping lightly with a curious desperation Angel has never quite seen Spike with before.

But Angel sits still, and does not move, even as Spike's hand moves to fumble with the tie on his pants and images of a shared past full of red lips and flushed cheeks and heated gazes flashes through his mind, and Angelus laughs at him while Spike moves over him and ghosts with words of wisdom dying on their lips flash by and –

The moment is broken, because Spike has stopped and is looking him dead in the eye, and he suddenly realizes that he has an iron grip around Spike's slim (_too slim_) wrist.

This wasn't part of the script.

"What do you want from me?" He demands suddenly.

Angel looks at him, silent, brow furrowed slightly.

"Angel!" The vampire's eyes flicker slightly. It has been a long time since Spike has accidentally called him by his name. "What the fuck do you want with me? You call me here and know I'll come, but you don't follow the plan! Why the…what…shit, I…"

And suddenly he is sobbing, over two centuries (or was it three?) of tears breaking out until he is a weeping fledge in his lap, and protective instinct flares like sunlight in his abdomen, curling up tightly around his heart.

It squeezes and Angels wraps his arms around Spike, gathering him closer and holding him.

But then, this is how it's always been, hasn't it?

Spike pulls away, a flicker of a sneer swiftly flashing through his eyes. He stands and moves around the desk, knowing Angel is watching him. Moves towards the exit, and when he's there and he turns back to look Angel in the eyes, Angel sees a desperate frustration in them, because Spike isn't willing to be William anymore.

"Fuck you," Spike says quietly, and turns to leave, though a voice in his head is screaming that this is the worst idea he's ever had.

And because his back is turned he doesn't see a glint of rage darken Angel's eyes and flash over him to subtly change his bone structure into something more predator than human. He doesn't register the exact moment when something inside him knew that Angel would be over that huge desk and have him spun around and against the wall before he could say "shit."

So he isn't quite surprised when he feels the hard wall against his back, but he gasps anyways because it _hurts_, and he hasn't felt any real pain in so long.

There is a sort of darkness in Angel's eyes, that makes Spike shiver. For a brief moment he is William before he catches himself and raises his chin. Angel growls and the little voice in Spike's head rolls it's eyes and says, '_you're in some deep shit now, mate,_' in a cockney that's not affected at all, and then it is gone and Spike isn't sure whether to be glad or feel alone suddenly, but then he doesn't care because Angel has bitten down on his neck _and it hurts_ and there are big hands at the fastenings of his pants and somehow his shirt has gone without him noticing.

When Angel is drinking his blood and moving inside him like some great big _serpent_, Spike knows that something is deeply, greatly wrong, because this isn't pleasure. It could be and it _would_ be and it _should_ be, but it's not. This isn't pleasure, this is punishment. It's not Angel with his lips fastened to a pale neck offered to him and it's not Spike who has this monster's dick buried inside him.

They are, for what seems like hours, not Angel and Spike anymore. For these brief moments they are childe and sire, something like predator and prey except the prey offered itself and was refused, and then when the prey got angry and tried to walk away, the predator pounced and this would be rape is they were Angel and Spike or if they were human, but it's not because they are childe and sire.

Spike will be the first to admit that perhaps his tone was a bit _too_ sharp, and maybe his words were a bit too harsh, but he'll tell you that he hadn't expected this.

William would have.

And then it is over, and Spike knows this is the moment when he should curl up and sob in Angel's arms, but the feeling of cold skin on cold skin is hypnotizing him and he doesn't think he could move if he tried.

But Spike knows this isn't right. The little voice is back. '_you just love **fucking** things up, don't you?_' it asks scornfully.

Spike ignores it, and knows he should do _something_, but he can't bring himself to move, and he can feel Angel inside him, and he can feel glittering dark eyes focused intensely on his face, waiting for him to do something, waiting…

Spike feels like prey.

He banishes all inhibitions, tilts his head back and whispers, 'Sire.'

Something in his consciousness sees Angel's triumphant smile, and somewhere in his head the voice is laughing, but all he can feel is a pull and a quiet spark.

* * *

Fin.

This feels like it needs a sequel, but I know the sequel would be full of awkward pauses and vampires going: "That was wrong." "Yes." "We should never do that again." "No, we shouldn't." "So I'm glad that's settled." "Yeah." "So, I'm going to leave, now." "You're still my childe, Spike." "Fuck you, Angel." And then the whole thing would restart itself. It could even possibly be MORE awkward and stereotypical than that.

I feel oddly happy. I suppose this thing has been weighing on my mind, because I'm not used to writing things this…flow-of-consciousness, emotion-y. I dunno. So maybe now it's not so bad.

I am redirected.

Anyways, Katie, hope you like…it would kind of be awful if you were the only one that requested a sequel and then I wrote one and you didn't like it. I know this isn't even close in feeling to the other one, but I don't thing it matters. If the other one was cold, this is hot. If that one was icy, this one is fiery. If that one was chaste, this one is wicked. Somehow I see more innocence in this one.


End file.
